Torn Edge

Eye can, with twin, exalt salt by rote. Short hands on long arms would whisper when a shout would do. I gesture: jest is a mask, worn by a yellow squirrel, to adjudicate a run-up tree. A nearly full gramma sentence; don’t stop is the refrain. Walk, err, repeat. Ice assists. Presently, I am tense; coffee and concatenated statements edged together via partial bowels. I did that already, and the creature on the line did several. I’m severed and we are closer. That’s the spirit, as they say, take a narrative position, remember the view from the formerly trained bridge to the carousel and the coaster, and stroll the bike. When a simple would do, take complex for its ride and watch for glass on the beach. A strange, fugue existence, guaranteed to crash. That was then, and ten cents wouldn’t go to the bookstore now. Nor can I predict which despair I’ll wear with that same worn shoe pair. Reversals make and forwards take; that’s what I’m working on: every sentence is a title. A repetition! Better than another metaphor. And yet, what is that but that. Four letters, irreversible, nap it out. Twenty minutes or less and you and I and we and they will be forged, futile, and filled with guilt. Gilt makes leaves skip yellow and green to brown. It’s been said before, another word-pile that takes spaces for granted, and then goes back to the bar.

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